


Mercy and Restraint

by agenthill



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Character Study, Collars, Dom/sub, F/F, Flavored Lube, Friends With Benefits, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: "Or did I instead show you rare mercy and restraint...?"- Winston Kipling,One by One Into the DarkAleks is strong, when Angela needs her to be.  Aleks can be solid, when Angela cannot be.  Aleks could be there, when Angela wants her to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [machinistwench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinistwench/gifts).



> So... this is a belated birthday present for a dear friend. Belated... but hopefully worth it! ILY dude <3

At the end of another long day, the front door of Angela’s quarters closes behind her with a satisfying click. The ritual of it, the symbolic end to a mission or a day in the operating room, brings with it a learned sense of relief, of unburdening. When, come 19:00, 20:00, 21:00 hours, Angela finally makes it back to her quarters, back to her private domain, she knows she can relax, knows it by the sound of that click, and feels it in her bones, feels it in the way her shoulders drop, her posture relaxes, and her guard finally, finally eases. Here, there is nothing she need fear, is no great burden of responsibility should her concentration slip for slightest of seconds, is a place where she is as much in control as she wishes to be.

Of course, the click of the door is not the only such click to which Angela is accustomed, is not the only sound she knows with a meaning far beyond what it initially seems. A click can be this: her wing mechanisms disengaging after a battle hard won, when she finally removes her Valkyrie suit and falls into a dreamless and uneasy sleep on the transport back to base. A click can be this: her Caduceus blaster reloading, just in time, and the knowledge that comes with it that she can take the shot, and with it live to save another life. A click can be this: the sound of her Caduceus staff locking upon an ally, and the relief of knowing that she has arrived in time to save them, that she has not failed them today. A click can be this: the moment she sets her pen to write after a breakthrough, mind racing with the possibilities and heart thudding with the knowledge that she has done it again, has solved the unsolvable once more, and need not worry about people dying of a particular problem any longer.

Always, a click is reassuring, is a message to Angela that she can, for the moment, cease to worry about what it was that concerned her before, can breathe easily once again. A click can be any of those things, and a click can be this: the sound of a collar closing around her neck, and the accompanying knowledge that for the time being, she need not worry about herself, for she is safely within the care of another.

Once, that feeling of comfort, of safety, was one in which Angela could rarely indulge, was one which she feared would be used against her professionally; now, after the fall of Overwatch, and given the illegal nature of her involvement in its current iteration, she has no such fear, for her reputation has been sullied enough. No sex scandal could touch what she has endured already. She finds it amusing, then, that it would be _now,_ when she need no longer worry about such a problem, that she finds someone with whom she can, at last, find this comfort discreetly and as frequently as she pleases.

Certainly, when meeting Aleksandra Zaryanova, Angela might never have imagined that this is what their relationship would come to. The two of them have little enough in common, on the surface, with their differing positions on combat, on omnic rights, on morality, and yet, they are drawn together. When the field is clear, and the day's conflict ended, they have both fought to protect those whom they could, have both sought to protect their homelands—and the rest of the world—from the destruction they witnessed as children, have both been so completely absorbed by their roles, of the stalwart defender and of the healer, that it makes sense that they would both grasp at anything, _anything_ to be seen differently.

For Aleks, it is a need to be in control, to feel that no matter the losses of the day, she can still protect, and for Angela it is this, right here, the ability to be powerless, to be completely at the mercy of another person, and to at long last simply _be,_ without expectation or pretense.

And all of it begins with a _click._

The click of Angela's own heels as she crosses the floor of her quarters towards her bedroom, the click of the collar Aleks clips into place around Angela's neck, and the click of Angela's mind, shifting from clinical and in control to something else, formless and mutable, capable only of registering sensation, and guided by Aleks' capable hands.

_Click._

_"_ On your knees," says Aleks, and Angela (not Mercy, not Dr. Ziegler, not anything more than a name and a body) obeys without question. A part of her notes the ache in them, the result of one too many hard landings in her Valkyrie suit, but she does not let it worry her, Aleks will not hurt her, not more than she needs to be hurt, will be careful not to exacerbate any existing injury—her body is not, for now, her concern. So, she notices the ache, but does nothing more.

Aleks walks around her, once, twice, three times, as if sizing her up, considering her state before she truly initiates whatever it is they will do tonight. On the worst of days, nothing sexual comes of this, and Aleks will haul her up, carry her to the bed in those strong arms, and simply hold her, encouraging her to _feel_ as she shivers and shudders through her emotions, wordlessly and soundlessly as possible. Today is not such a day, and Angela needs something else, needs a different kind of support.

From somewhere behind Angela, there comes a humming sound, and she can hear Aleks retreat to the bed stand, knows the slight stubborn creak of the drawer which is pulled open. While there is no command preventing Angela from looking around, from checking to see what it is that Aleks is grabbing, there is no order which compels her to do so either, and it is beyond her, in a time such as this, to take initiative and to look for herself. What comes, she knows will come, and it makes no difference if she knows what toy it is Aleks intends to use now or minutes from now.

Footsteps return, surprisingly light against the floorboards, before pausing abruptly. Just behind her, Angela can hear the jangling of metal as Aleks fumbles with something, followed by a curse and then, at last, another _click._

When Aleks steps back into Angela's field of vision, she is sporting a rather large dildo, one chosen months earlier by Angela specifically because the color is identical to the color of Aleks' hair.

"Suck," commands Aleks, and Angela does—eagerly.

Occasionally, outside of this room, Angela has had cause to defend Aleks, to say that she can be gentle if need be, to say that those strong arms will not cause accidental harm to others, and such is true, but it is true because Aleks knows her strength. For that same reason, Aleks is also confident in her ability to push Angela without harming her, to be rough without being _too_ rough, to push Angela when she needs to be pushed. Unlike so many others, Aleks has never been fool enough to believe that Angela is fragile, and knows well enough that sometimes, when Angela feels at the breaking point, what she needs is to be reminded of what she can withstand.

Now, after a difficult mission, and an even more difficult meeting afterwards spent defending her decisions, what Angela needs is to be reminded that she cannot be broken, that she cannot be perfect, that she cannot be anything more than the human being she has always been—and Aleks is ever willing to provide that reminder.

Roughly, Aleks holds the back of Angela's hair, does not allow her to flinch back when a particularly strong thrust of the dildo inside her mouth takes her off-guard. Even if Angela's mind were inclined to wander back to the events of the day, how could it, when she has this as an anchor, when strong fingers punish lapses in concentration and any thoughts which may stray beyond her immediate situation. Even if Angela's mind seeks to betray her, Aleks will not allow that, will hold her in the present, will remind her that she exists beyond her worries, in the present.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is Angela's sharp breathing through her nose, and the sound of the toy sliding in and out of her mouth. All Angela can smell is Aleks, and herself, the scent of their combined arousal and the sweat of Aleks' recent work out. All she can see is Aleks, commanding her entire field of vision. All she can feel is the hands in her hair, the toy in her mouth, and dully, the ache of her knees. All she can taste is rubber, and the strawberry flavor of Alek's preferred lube. There is nothing in her world but the two of them, right here, like this.

And then, Aleks breaks the silence, and reminds Angela why it is she needs this, what it is that has driven her here.

"What would people think," Aleks asks her, "If they saw you like this? The great doctor, kneeling, collared, and obedient? Where is the conviction they prize you for, mm? You say you hate the military, hate what Overwatch became, and here you are, sucking a soldier's cock."

In response, Angela feels her face heat, shame and arousal both, feels herself grow wetter. She wants this, wants to be told she is dirty, that she is wrong, that she is making a mistake, because when Aleks tells her this she wants to fight it, and it is so much easier to fight her own doubts when they are told to her by another. She wants this, to be used and told she is nothing, for if she is worthless, if she cannot think for herself, then she need not worry, for a moment, about the safety of others, need not worry that if she does not work hard enough she will damn thousands who have diseases yet incurable, need not worry that any failing on her part will result in disaster. How can she fail when she is not the one responsible for herself? How can she fall further than this?

"Wet already, aren't you?" asks Aleks, as if they have not done this enough times to know that Angela is, to know that by now Angela is aching for her, would be from anticipation alone, even if she had not spoken. The question is for Angela's benefit, to ensure her mind does not wander too far

Around the toy, Angela chokes out a yes, because she is _,_ she _is_ , and she wants Aleks to touch her, to fill her, to take her—and to have all the control that phrasing implies.

But Aleks will not be so kind. Right now, Angela is not deserving of kindness, nor does she truly desire it. What she wants is to please Aleks, to know she is capable of doing _something_ right, of fulfilling _someone's_ needs, to know that even outside of her job, there is some value to her actions. (All too often, she feels a title without a name, a job with no _person_ behind it. Aleks has never seen her as such.)

"Enough," says Aleks, and there it is, another _click_. This time, it is her hands that snap, and Angela knows what this click signals too, as she pulls off of the toy and sits back on her haunches. In the moment of respite she knows she will be granted she works her jaw, easing the tension in it, and resists the urge of one of her hands to drift between her legs. If she truly needed it, truly deserved, Aleks would allow her to touch herself. She can be good, she can wait, she can _obey._

Aleks divests herself of the harness, puts it aside, and moves to stand over Angela. The angle is awkward, forces Angela's head backwards, and she knows that it will be sore in the morning, but she trusts Aleks not to go too far, and while they never mark one another, Angela can savor a slight ache the day after as a reminder of her time like this, when she feels overwhelmed.

This time, Aleks does not give a verbal command, does not warn Angela at all, before she pushes her face upwards, but she hardly needs too. Angela _wants_ this, wants to service Aleks, and her tongue works eagerly, as best she can given the angle. If only she could reach up and hold onto Aleks, it would be easier, would give her greater access, but Aleks is not Angela's to grab, to have, to take, to do so would to be to overstep, and so Angela must learn to accept what she can do within the limits of her position, must recognize that not everything she wishes is attainable.

But this has always been a hard lesson for Angela, and it is scarcely more than a minute before she finds her hands wandering—for Aleks' own good—creeping upwards to grab hold of Aleks' ass and pull her flush with Angela's face. Before she can, however, one of Aleks' strong hands bats hers away.

"Nyet," says Aleks, "No touching unless I tell you to. Have I not told you?"

Angela's reply is lost in Aleks' folds, muffled beyond all recognition, but Aleks knows her well—too well.

"You are _mine,_ " Aleks says, jerking Angela's head so that her jaw snaps shut with an audible _click._ (Another click, and Angela relaxes; sometimes it is not enough to be in Aleks' control, to know it, sometimes she needs to be reminded and to feel it.) " _I_ decide what you do, understand?"

"Yes," gasps Angela, mouth barely opening because of the way Aleks has gripped her jaw.

"Yes, _what?_ "

"Yes, Aleks." (Even at times like this, they never use titles. The two of them are here to escape from their jobs, and it feels unnatural to call Aleks by any title _but_ her rank. Names can be powerful nonetheless, serve as a reminder of the people behind them, and Aleks has a strong name, k cutting off the vowel abruptly, like the end of a click.)

"Finish what you started," Aleks orders her, "But this time, do it right."

So Angela does, throws herself into licking and sucking at Aleks, not gentle or teasing this time, but with purpose. Aleks tends to appreciate directness, even if it is not Angela's way, and it shows in the way she drips against Angela's face, in the speeding of her breaths, in the very faintest tremor of her thighs.

Even like this, coming apart, Aleks is more composed than Angela, is able to hold almost entirely still, is undoubtedly _in control_. That composure, that strength, is what draws Angela to her, again and again—much as she might wish it, Angela never feels so stalwart as Aleks seems to, and so she presses closer, closer, as if she might absorb by contact that sureness, might be better for it.

But she cannot, no matter how she tries, cannot change herself, cannot free herself from doubt entirely, from fear of failing others, and much as she might wish it, she cannot stay like this forever—cannot allow herself to relinquish her responsibilities, and so these temporary reprieves cannot last.

Above her, Aleks comes soundlessly, grip on the back of Angela's head tightening for a moment, and Angela imagines what her face must look like—never is she allowed to see Aleks' face at the moment she orgasms, never is she allowed to witness that moment of vulnerability. To do so would shatter the illusion, so Angela does not look up, keeps her attentions on Aleks until she finds herself jerked backwards.

She falls back, hands thrown backwards to hold herself up, but her teeth do not click together, not this time, for some part of her expects it, knows that Aleks wants to reassert her position after her moment of vulnerability—and Angela accepts this, understands the necessity of it, for herself and for Aleks both. If Aleks' voice is not yet steady when next she speaks—well, Angela can ignore that.

"Turn over," Aleks orders her, and Angela does. Their eyes nearly met as she fell and that, like so many other things, is not allowed, is dangerous, might foster the sort of attachment that they cannot afford, lest one of them fall in battle.

"Touch yourself," is the next command, and Angela does, without hesitation or restraint. She does not tease herself, does not take her time—she has been good, has done everything Aleks asked of her, and she _deserves_ this, and feels she needs it, too. She has been wet since the collar closed around her neck, has been wanting all this time, and while she could draw it out, could stay longer in Aleks' care if she did so; already she feels more herself than when they began, and knows she does not need much more—in more ways than one.

"Look at you," Aleks says, "On all fours, in a collar, fucking yourself at my command. Like a bitch in heat."

The arm Angela is holding herself up with is trembling, as are her legs, and the shame that pools in her gut at the comparison is nothing compared to the heat gathered there, and the tension, and she bites her lip to keep herself from whining—knows what unflattering comparison Aleks would draw there.

Sweat sticks her hair to her forehead, and slides off of her back, the heat of exertion and arousal and Aleks' stare, always, _always_ there. However, even rocking into her hand, thumb rough on her clit and fingers deep as the angle allows, she finds herself hitting a wall right at the edge, unable to quite push herself over. It is maddening, and she needs just a little more, needs something just a bit different, needs—

" _Aleks_ ," she gasps out, " _Please._ "

A chuckle from behind her, "Say it again. I know you can do better."

" _Please Aleks._ " She is so, so close, breath hitching and center throbbing, all of her focusing inward, inward, "I need you, need you to help me, I can't— _Aleks please._ "

Aleks is right, Angela could do better, could finish herself if she really put her mind to it—but the point of this is for her to be mindless, for her to rely upon Aleks, and so although she could do _better,_ this is enough for Aleks for now.

Despite her size, Aleks moves silently when she wants to—or, maybe, Angela is too caught up in her actions and her arousal to notice the sound of her movement—and Angela nearly jumps when all of a sudden Aleks is leaning over her, one hand joining Angela's between her legs, and lips at her ears.

"Can you be good and come for me?" Angela shivers in response to the words, despite the heat, and she wants to—wants to be good, and then Aleks pinches her, almost painfully, and moves her mouth to bite at Angela's neck, and everything slides into place, a _click._

When Angela is done, she is panting, and Aleks is holding her up, whispering praise in her ear, a litany of _You did well,_ and _Good girl,_ and _I have you, you're safe here._

It is almost, almost perfect, and she does not want to open her eyes, does not want it to end, but eventually the pressure on her knees is too much, and she needs to move. When she pushes Aleks off of her, and turns to go to grab the glass she keeps at her bedside, their eyes meet, and the words tumble out unbidden:

"Stay with me?" Angela hates the way she sounds when she says it, hates the way her voice trembles slightly, hates that she says it at all.

"I can't," Aleks says, and her voice is thicker than normal—and somehow, that hurts more than the rejection itself. Angela does not want to prove Aleks is vulnerable, does not want to ruin the illusion of strength that Aleks has cloaked herself in.

So Angela does not turn around, does not look back to see the face Aleks is making in response to her question, does not watch Aleks leave her alone again, and most certainly does not give Aleks a chance to see the way her eyes are watering.

She wishes she could see Aleks vulnerable, could be allowed to care for Aleks the way Aleks cares for her, wishes she were enough to compel Aleks to stay, but she understands, knows what it is to need to maintain that illusion. They have time, though—Angela will guarantee that much, will not allow either of them to die, if at all possible—and perhaps someday, years from now, they will not need to fight, will not need to be strong, will not need this, and can be something else for one another.

Someday, but not today.

When Angela sets down her glass of water, it hits the table with a dull _thunk._

**Author's Note:**

> ...and there we have it. my first, but hopefully not last, crack at zarcy. :')
> 
> plus im finally over my 100k slump... free and clear. thanks to this, of all things.
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!


End file.
